


Red Pocket Square.

by searchingforpeter



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Blow Jobs, Closet Sex, M/M, Meeting the Parents, Mirror Sex, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-28
Updated: 2013-08-28
Packaged: 2017-12-24 22:57:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/945677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/searchingforpeter/pseuds/searchingforpeter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire is meeting Enjolras' parents at long last. The only problem? He has to dress up, and that in itself makes him nervous. Enjolras has to think on his feet (or rather, his knees) to get his boyfriend to calm down before dinner.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Red Pocket Square.

"I look ridiculous."

"You look nothing of the sort. You’re  _being_ ridiculous, yes, but you certainly don’t look it.”

Grantaire’s eyebrow has a mind of it’s own as it quirks up, seemingly wanting to meet his hairline, where he’s allowed Enjolras to slick back his usually unruly curls. The man standing behind him cannot seriously think he looks good in what he’s poured him into, can he?

He’s stood in front of the floor length mirror in Enjolras’ wardrobe - and he’s just found out that he has a walk-in wardrobe at his parents’ place, and he’s proud of himself for not calling him a princess, or something to the same effect - and he’s looking at a man that does not look like Grantaire as he knows him. He’s been manhandled into a charcoal coloured suit, pressed into a white shirt and strangled with a burgundy tie. It doesn’t look  _bad_ so to speak but… Well, he’s never really been comfortable imitating a penguin for the sake of one dinner.

"Alright then, I  _feel_ ridiculous. Better?”

Enjolras rolls his eyes behind him and Grantaire can feel it against his back. Even through the layers of shirt, waistcoat and jacket, he can feel the annoyance radiating off of his lover. He risks a glance back and sees the beginnings of a smirk.

He’s seen that smirk before. It’s the one his little activist has for solely private moments and whilst Grantaire would usually love where that expression leads, he’s not so sure he wants it directed at him right now. It’s taken him long enough to get into this suit at Enjolras’ insistence already.

There’s a click and a slide and the wardrobe door is locked, leaving them in a fairly claustrophobic space full of clothes he has never seen Enjolras wear. Even for his snooty Politics major, some of these seem a bit much.

"I don’t want you feeling ridiculous, ‘Taire." And fuck, that voice is going to kill him one day he’s sure. It’s dropped an octave, easily, and is prowling behind him, sneaking up to purr in his ears. How can one man’s _voice_ be so fucking feline and predatory?

"I want you feeling…" There’s a pause. His breath hitches, waits, knowing in his throat what comes next. Arms snake around his waist, unpick the single button in the front of his jacket. " _Comfortable._ ”

Comfortable is apparently code for ‘completely and utterly fucking boneless’ in Enjolras’ book.

Enjolras slides his hands over the taut material of his waistcoat, feeling where the expensive wool blend pulls over Grantaire’s slightly wider frame, pressed close against the plane of his stomach. His fingers trace the dip of the vest, mapping out the central line of his shirt buttons where they disappear beneath the fabric. Grantaire feels far from comfortable. He feels clammy, dressed in a suit that’s probably about a decade old, a shirt that’s got a paint splodge on one tail and a waistcoat plucked from his bloody  _boyfriend’s wardrobe_. 

The lips that touch his neck are too hot, burning his skin, and his head rolls back out of habit. The suit jacket rolls easily from his shoulders and he doesn’t even have to move to get it to fall from his wrists and into Enjolras’ waiting hands. It’s set aside, folded, and his cuffs undone, the links clinking onto the small table to their left. His shirt sleeves are rolled up over his elbows before Enjolras speaks again.

"Look."  
It’s a simple enough command, but Grantaire is all but putty in the warm embrace that promised so much and is currently giving so little. He barely cracks his eyes open enough to see Enjolras’ deft, crafty fingers sliding open his belt and pushing the leather edges aside, seeking his button and zip.  _Fuck._

He keeps his eyes trained on the mirror in front of them as best he can as his trousers are pushed, pooling down around his ankles. They’re going to be as creased as his grandmother’s face when he pulls them back up. If he can pull them back up after Enjolras is finished with him, that is. Grantaire’s boxers follow, falling into the frame his trousers have created-

And then there’s suddenly no warmth behind him and he almost staggers back. The movement was too quick and his weight too dependent on Enjolras’ chest to stay upright on his own. Grantaire’s hand shoots out, clutches at a clothing rail to his right, and his breath vacates his lungs with a high pitched ‘ _you’re on your own mate!_ ' when he sees the sight before him.

There’s a string of thoughts powering through his mind and he only catches the tail of each of them.

_Why is he in front of me now?_

_Where the fuck did his trousers go?_

_He’s on his knees. Why is he on his knees?_

_No really, I’d have felt him take his clothes off. Where did they go?_

_Is it possible to die from the sight of Enjolras, stripped from the waist down, on his knees, do you think?_

“‘Taire? Hello? Earth to Grantaire.”

He snaps back at the small slap to his thigh, eyes wide and waistcoat slightly crumpled, shirt tails being tucked away by the young man in front of him. Grantaire is embarrassingly hard, considering he’s not had so much as a proper kiss. Enjolras seems to be reading his thoughts, the cocky git, as he smirks where he kneels, hands roaming across his thighs.

Maybe it’s the nerves. Is it possible to get erections whilst nervous? Grantaire shudders with a wave of early secondary school memories of awkward tented trousers in the back of class and shuts them away again.

"Like I said. I want you to feel comfortable." Enjolras is smiling, a softer expression, and his hands dig into the skin of Grantaire’s thighs. He wastes no time at all in taking the head of his cock into his mouth and suckling gently.  
(He realises why when he glances to the clock and finds they only have ten minutes until the dinner starts.)

Grantaire is already gasping. One hand slides through Enjolras’ hair - damn the amount of time he spent doing it; it looked fine before he started preening anyway - and his hips twitch, eyes rolling. He can’t help but glance into the mirror-  
He groans as he makes eye contact with his reflected self and Enjolras takes him deeper, tongue pressed flat against his shaft. He forces his eyes open, watching as the gorgeous man between his legs sucks and slurps around his prick, head bobbing, tongue lapping.

"Fuck.  _Fuck_.” He’s cursing aimlessly, babbling out half finished utterances of Enjolras’ name, separated by moans. “ _E-Enjol-_ , Christ.”

Enjolras hums his approval and sparks shatter along his skin, spiking tiny explosions into his blood. Grantaire isn’t sure if he’s seeing white or gold or black or red but there’s colour and heat and the sound of the man he’s hopelessly, madly in love with enjoying sucking his cock to calm him down. And it isn’t just the suit that’s got him in a twist. It’s the idea of sitting down with Enjolras’ parents too.

There’s another hum and a swallow and a tongue sliding over the tip of his cock, and Grantaire is almost there. His hips twitch, his hands tighten in blonde strands and around the cold metal pole, and he gasps wordlessly, eyes finally closing. He’s losing his mind, feeling it being sucked out through his cock, and he can’t hold on. Enjolras presses his tongue against his shaft as he takes him deep, sucking hard, and then he’s coming, struggling to breathe as he bites down on his fist, swaying on his feet after letting go of the clothing rail.

Enjolras swallows every last drop that Grantaire has to give him, steadying his lover with strong hands on his hips. He cleans him up with a small chuckle and tucks him back into his boxers. He does up his trousers and bats out most of the creases. Grantaire’s cheeks are flushed and his eyes wide, a dopey grin on his lips.

"Cheeky bastard."  
” _Useful_ , cheeky bastard, I think you’ll find.”

Grantaire really doesn’t care. He sinks to his knees and pushes Enjolras back. He all but attacks his mouth, licking between his lips and pulling at them with his teeth, grinning all the while. There’s a drop of cum against his cheek and he wipes it off with his pocket square, before sliding a hand between them to wrap around his activist’s cock. He’s already halfway there, judging by the way his mouth drops open and his eyes close, neck and back arching away from the cold wood floor.

"No way. Open your eyes. Take a look in the mirror, Angel."

He’s not surprised when he does as he’s told, and Grantaire takes the opportunity to slide down his body and cover the head of his cock with his mouth. Enjolras all but shouts, voice cracking as it wraps around a moan too large to be contained in his throat.

It takes him all of a few minutes to drag him over the edge, clawing at the wood, eyes still fixed on the mirror and the lengthy display of what has panned out before him. Grantaire is a touch more practiced at swallowing every little bit and doesn’t make Enjolras’ mistake of getting any on his face when he swallows.

He sits back and Enjolras props himself up on shaky elbows, lazily smirking at Grantaire. “I told you that would work.”

"No you didn’t. In fact, you didn’t give me any warning-"

"Messing with you, R. Relax."

Enjolras reaches for his boxers and trousers, pulling them on with the ease of a man that’s done this before. Grantaire wants to say they haven’t, but it’s not the first time they’ve had a fumble in a confined space.

He stands up and brushes himself down, fixing his waistcoat over his torso and adjusting his tie so that it sits flat against his shirt. He rolls down his shirt sleeves and manages to remove most of the creases, before sliding the cufflinks into place again. Grantaire peeks into the mirror and-

"Damn, I look good."

Enjolras snorts a laugh from beside him, shaking his head as he pulls on his own suit jacket and reties his bow tie. Grantaire rolls his eyes and picks up his pocket square.

Before his boyfriend can protest, he’s folded it up, cum stain against his jacket, and placed it into his pocket. He grabs his own jacket and makes for the door, grinning wickedly over his shoulder.

"A reminder that next time, I pick where we go to meet parents. This, is bloody ridiculous."

Enjolras thinks he’s going to ban that word. He adjusts the pocket square, rolls his eyes, and follows Grantaire out, taking his hand and shutting the door behind him. 

They’re already two minutes late for dinner and Enjolras knows that ‘ _S_ _orry Mum, Dad, I was blowing my boyfriend so that he’d calm the fuck down’_ isn’t going to be a valid excuse when he’s asked just why they’re late.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally from my tumblr.


End file.
